


Rough

by conceptofzero



Category: BioShock
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1461889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one thing to get topside and start a new life. It's another to get over Rapture. Jack's got a hole in his head where Atlas was and he does his best to fill it with someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the bio-trash kinkmeme.

He waits until the girls are all asleep before he heads out. They’re good kids, all solid sleepers these days. Tenenbaum will be there if any of them wake up. He used to make excuses, reasons to leave the farm, before he realized she didn’t care. Now he just tells her he’s going for a drive, so she knows he’s not at the barn. Most times, she barely looks up from her work, just nodding. 

If she knows where he’s headed, what he’s really doing, she never says a thing. Maybe she understands, in her own way. 

It’s half-an-hour to the nearest town, but he heads around it, adding another half hour onto his journey to hit the city. It’s small, nothing like Rapture (but then again, is anything like Rapture?), but it’s big enough to lose yourself in. Jack knows where he’s going by now and he also knows a safe place to park, where people won’t be tempted to try break into the truck. He leaves it in a well lit area and walks the ten blocks to the bar. 

There’s a smear of chalk on the wall where someone had written a word - probably FAGGOT judging by the length - and someone else had come alone and smeared it. Jack tucks his head into his collar a little and slips inside, trying not to draw too much attention. The place is a dive, the air hazy with cigarette smoke and the jukebox playing oldies. He finds an empty spot at the bar and waits until the bartender swings around, motioning to a bottle of whiskey. Jack forks over a few dollars when he gets his glass and he waits, scanning the room for someone with the right look. 

“Been a while.” The man beside him says. Jack turns to look at him, surprised that somebody’s noticed him often enough to remember his face. He doesn’t recognize the fellow beside him. The man seems to pick up on that, raising his own glass to Jack. “You’re in here every few weeks, but you were gone the last few months.” 

“Oh. Harvest season. We got busy.” It’s true, but only part of the reason why he’s here. Last time he came in, things went… bad. What he thought was a hook-up was actually a robbery. Guess the guy figured no one would report him if they had to tell the cops what they were doing in an alleyway with their pants around their knees. Jack wasn’t an ordinary guy though, but he was trying to be, and he’d barely stopped himself from driving his fist through the man’s head. This wasn’t Rapture, and that man wasn’t a splicer, just a thief. It had seemed smarter to stay clear, stay away until he felt sure that guy would be gone, along with his memories of Jack’s face. 

“Farm boy eh? Should have known by looking at you.” The man’s eyes sweep up and down Jack. He’s handsome, dark thick hair and a crooked nose, and a smile that could be called lavious. Jack’s stomach flips a little when he leans in, just slightly, and cocks his head. “Got a name?”

“Jack.” He swallows more of the whiskey. It’s cheap and watered down, but he doesn’t care. He’s not here to get drunk. “You?” 

“Tim.” It’s a lie. He probably thinks Jack’s a lie too. That’s fine. It’s safer if they don’t have names here. Some of these men are married. Some have kids, like Jack. But Jack’s also got a birth certificate that won’t stand up to any scrutiny, twenty-one children of which none have any sort of paperwork and over half are Rapture-born, and a farm currently owned by a Fontaine Futuristics’ shell company. Jack offers a hand and Tim shakes it. He’s got a good strong grip. He’s also got a nice voice… even if it’s not the right voice. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

“Sure.” Jack says and tips his remaining whiskey back, feeling it burn up in his belly. 

They have a few drinks, just to be polite and not too obvious in case there’s anybody in here who doesn’t know what sort of bar this is. Tim excuses himself first and Jack gives him a minute or two before he follows him to the bathroom. They take the ladies, locking the door behind them. Tim’s already got his belt open by the time Jack slips his jacket off, setting it on the sink to keep it clean. Then he drops to his knees and shoves Tim’s underwear down, getting his cock out. 

“Suck it, c’mon, put your mouth on it.” Tim says, but it’s not him he’s thinking about as Jack slides his mouth down the hard, warm shaft. It’s Atlas whose voice he hears, that thick Irish brogue that he still can’t get out of his head, even after all this time. _Suck it Jack_ , his mind supplies and he does, working his mouth up and down the cock in front of him. 

There’s a hand in his hair and it tightens, yanking a little roughly on him. Jack groans to himself, swallowing and sucking and shoving a hand down to touch himself through his pants. He closes his eyes and he can almost convince himself that he’s in Rapture still, kneeling in front of Atlas. Not Frank Fontaine and his lies and tricks, but the Atlas he thought was real, the man who helped Jack through the dangers of the city and promised to shake his hand when it was all over. First crushes are bad enough without them being on people who never existed. 

Jack pulls up a little, sucking just on the head of Atlas’ cock. There’s a groan from Tim and he makes it into Atlas’, a soft pained thing that goes straight through Jack. He rubs his palm against the fly of his jeans, giving a little relief to the bulge underneath. The hand on his hair pushes him down, shoving the cock back into his mouth. 

Atlas is all he can think about. He imagines Atlas shoving him down, Atlas fucking his mouth, Atlas so stricken with grief and rage that he forgets to be gentle with Jack. His free hand grasps onto one the left thigh in front of him, squeezing hard. The thrusts get faster, and he braces himself, sucking as hard as he dares. Tim comes a moment later, a hand pressed over his mouth to keep himself quiet. Jack swallows and squirms, desperate to be touched by anything other than his hand. 

Tim steps back, slipping out of Jack’s mouth. He wipes his lips clean and gets up, fumbling with his fly as they change positions. Jack would like to fuck Tim, or be fucked by Tim, but he can’t tonight. They’d need to get a room and from the way Tim suggested they stay here, it’s pretty clear they can’t go to his place. They could fuck in Jack’s truck but that’s dangerous, especially in this part of town. The cops have raided this place before, never when Jack was in, but there’s lots of exits out. You get caught fucking a man in your vehicle, you can forget about going back to your farm and your kids and your- well. Whatever Tenenbaum is to him and he is to her. More than friends, less than family. 

So he settles for grabbing onto the sink to hold himself up as Tim gets in front of Jack. “Thinking about someone?” He asks, wrapping his hand around Jack’s shaft and stroking him. It feels good, much better than doing this on his own.

“Yeah.” He admits. It doesn’t hurt to tell the truth. 

“Tell me about him. He as good looking as me?” Tim sticks his tongue out and licks a stripe up the underside of Jack’s cock. It’s nice and warm, and then cold a second afterward as the air hits him. “Somebody you know well?”

“Used to know. Not well. Not as well as I thought.” He lets his fingers grasp the porcelain, casts his eyes down to the wet and waiting mouth in front of him. “He looked a little like you, I think. Never got a real good look at him.” Jack knows what Fontaine looked like, especially at the end, but Atlas was mostly a mystery, aside from those posters, and that Atlas was more of an idea than a person. He had his own thoughts though. “Heard him over the radio mostly.” 

“Sweet on some announcer?” Tim seems to be content with the information he’s been given. His smile is a little sharp, and Jack can’t picture that on Atlas’ face. Atlas always sounded so… weary. Angry. Excited a few times, but only a few brief times. He images Atlas to look weary mostly, tired from a revolution gone horribly wrong. “You know, I-” 

Jack doesn’t care, and though it’s rude, he puts a hand on the man’s mouth and guides his cock inside of it, shutting him up. He’s sure Tim’s a nice guy, funny maybe or clever or something, but they’re not doing this because they plan on talking to each other ever again. Jack just wants someone to fuck, someone who can be what Atlas never was, and then he wants to go home and sleep in his own bed. 

Tim’s mouth is hot, his tongue busy at work rolling around the head of Jack’s cock. He’s good at this, really enthusiastic. Jack tilts his head back and keeps a hand settled on the man’s head, twisting his fingers up in Atlas’ hair. One of the taps is dripping here and he can almost imagine that he’s back in Rapture, in one of those sleazy bathrooms with the coin slots to rent a stall. Atlas has come out of hiding to meet him and to talk face to face instead of over the radio, and one thing’s lead to another. 

“That’s it. That’s it.” He encourages the man. Atlas chuckles (and Jack could swear for a moment that he can actually hear the real thing) and just sucks a little harder, Jack’s shaft twitching at the extra suction. He nearly says Atlas’ name, biting it back at the last second and turning it into a gasp instead. “Good.” 

Tim’s hands settle on Jack’s waist, fingers dipping under the top of his jeans and stroking the soft flesh there. His fingers find something - a scar - and they rub it. Jack tries to remember how he got that scar. Splicer probably, more than likely a spider slicer. It’s been a long time but he can still feel their hooks burning his skin, tearing him open. Tim pinches it and he replaces that touch with Atlas’. _How’d you get that one boyo?_ You should know Atlas, Jack thinks, you watched me get it. 

_Ah christ son, you’re right. You nearly bled out trying to get to a health station._ The Atlas in his mind sounds a little regretful, maybe a little nostalgic. The fingers on his pants pull them down a little further and the mouth slips off his cock, seeking out the scar instead. Atlas sucks on it, wrapping a hand around Jack and stroking him hard and fast. He squeezes his eyes tight, Jack breathing fast as he feels his guts start to tighten up. Atlas’ hair is soft to the touch and he winds his fingers tighter in it, careful not to pull too hard. 

“You’re close, I can feel it. Come on.” The voice mutters against his hip, teeth digging into the scar and biting on the flesh. It’s not Atlas he thinks of then, it’s Frank who’s voice rasps through his mind uninvited. _Come on kid. Would you kindly-_

Jack twists and comes, shuddering hard and sagging against the sink. He can barely enjoy how good it feels when his stomach’s turned to ice and his heart pounds irregularly in his chest. It’s a comfort to open his eyes and see Tim kneeling there, pumping Jack’s cock until there’s nothing left but a familiar soothing throb in his body. 

They tidy each other up. Jack gives the floor a wipe and washes his hands. His mouth’s a little dry and he ducks his head, drinking from the tap and swallowing it down, not wanting to be too rude. He shrugs his jacket on while Tim straightens his clothes back out and claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “See you around?” 

Maybe, he thinks. Tim’s handsome enough. He’s never slept with the same guy twice before. Jack doesn’t want to lead anybody on, make them think there’s ever going to be a chance when he’s going to choose them over his life on the farm. Those girls are his family. They need him. This is… this is an itch he scratches when it gets too hard to bear. “Sure,” he says, having gotten good at lying. “See you around.” 

Jack steps out of the women’s washroom and slips out through the back, heading for his truck. It’s a long drive back but that’s good, it’ll give him time to clear his head, shake out the Atlas and Frank voices that are still stuck there, trying to chat with him. He’s never mentioned it to Tenenbaum, not wanting her to think he’s pathetic or a fool for still thinking about Atlas after all this time. Sometimes though, he wonders if he should, in case this has something to do with the ADAM. Other splicers had flashbacks, and so did he, though the voices aren’t the same as what he encountered in Arcada, or in Eve’s Garden. That was more… tangible. 

He turns up the radio and does his best to drown out his thoughts with guitars and other people’s problems. 

It’s nearly 3am when he pulls up in the driveway, the headlights splashing over the barn and house. Jack parks near the barn, not wanting to wake the girls with the rumble of the engine. He can see there’s a light on in living room. Probably Tenenbaum. He’ll take over for her, let her sleep a while. Jack can afford to do that. He seems to need less sleep than everyone else. Three hours is as much for him as seven is for most others. 

He slips his jacket and hangs it in the hall, putting his boots carefully in the only open space in a sea of little shoes. Jack makes his way towards the light, setting a hand on the doorframe and peeking inside, feeling a little like he did when he was a teenager and he used to sneak in-

No, that never happened. He was never sixteen. He never worried about waking his parents. The memory is still hard to shake, but he does his best to put it aside, with all the other memories that were never really his. 

Tenenbaum is sitting on the couch for once, one of the girls in her lap. That’s Mary or- no, no that’s Etta. Mary has the braids. Etta’s the one who has to be talked into doing anything with her hair. She’s asleep but Tenenbaum is awake, turning her eyes from her book to meet Jack. “Nightmares,” she answers the question he hasn’t asked yet. 

Jack doesn’t need to ask what kind of nightmares. All the girls have the same half a dozen nightmares. Tenenbaum never says much, but he suspects she has some of them too. Jack knows he certainly does. Thank you Rapture. 

He grabs a chair nearby, pulling it in close so they can talk quietly. “Did she have trouble falling back asleep?”

“Only a little. She wanted you.” There’s no accusations in her voice, no malice at all, and yet Jack still feels guilty for not being here. He knows he needs to take care of himself, and he knows Tenenbaum can handle these girls as well as he can, but he still feels that dull flare of disappointment in himself. He should have been here. Tenenbaum shakes her head, as if she can read Jack like an open book. “She knows you will baby her. It’s good for her to understand you will not always be in arm’s reach.” 

He reaches out to run his fingers over Etta’s hair. When he first saw her, it was like dry straw, so brittle that some of it broke when he picked her up. He still remembers the way she fought him. Jack wonders if Etta remembers that too. “What did you tell her?” 

“I told her you were driving. It’s the truth, more or less.” Tenenbaum nods to the window behind her. “Open that for me.” 

Jack does so, and as the cool night air flows in, she lights a cigarette. He grabs a blanket from the end of the couch, something his mother made- something somebody bought, and he drapes it over Etta to keep her warm. “I… wasn’t just driving.” 

They haven’t talked about this. Jack doesn’t know how to talk about it. They should, in case something happens. But he finds it hard to say anything. It’s not the homosexuality, he has a feeling Tenenbaum doesn’t care about sex at all. It’s the rest of it. 

“I know.” She cuts off his thoughts, shaking her head. There’s a wry look on her face as she brings the cigarette to her mouth, turning her head to the side to exhale out the window instead of in Jack’s face. “You go to the city. I know how much we are spending on gas. You are never there long. I have been in your shoes Jack. I know what you are doing.” 

He really doubts she knows exactly what he’s doing. Though maybe he does. Rapture was a different place before the splicers. He thinks of Cohen briefly. Jack’s fingers twitch and he nods towards her cigarettes. Tenenbaum offers him one and she lights it for him. The smoke’s good, just what he needs to settle the case of nerves that’s come over him since he walked back in the farmhouse. 

“They’re just… distractions. It won’t be more than that, I promise.” He finally says out loud. That’s what he really wants her to know. Jack’s not going anywhere. This is his home. This is his family. These girls need him. “I promise. I’m not driving to get away from this.” 

“Jack, I know.” She reaches out then, lightly touching the armrest. Tenenbaum’s close enough to touch him, but she won’t. She only touches the girls. “You were driving Frank from your mind.” 

His stomach twists. Jack takes the cigarette out of his mouth and averts his eyes from her, trying to find an explanation for her that’s not sad and pathetic. 

Etta stirs then, half-sitting up in Tenenbaum’s lap. “Papa?” She rubs one of her eyes, but she’s not fully awake, just moving out and back into sleep. Jack takes the opportunity, scooping Etta up and settling her against his chest. He’s embarrassed and he’ll take this chance to leave the room with a little dignity intact. Etta drapes an arm over his shoulder, her eyes already shutting again. 

There’s an ashtray by Tenenbaum and he leans in to drop his cigarette in it. He’s not sure what to say, so he says nothing, keeping his eyes averted. 

Tenenbaum’s fingers touch his wrist, just slightly, and the touch is enough to startle him into looking at her. Her skin is so thin, like paper, and her face is sad. “I know Jack. I have been in your shoes.” 

The look in her eyes is one he’s seen in the mirror too many times. It’s sad, but it’s also a relief, a weight on his soul that lifts a little. It’s good to know he’s not alone. She’s been here too. 

The touch ends as quickly as it started, Tenenbaum retreating in on herself. She returns to her book as he heads out of the room and starts up the farmhouse stairs. The touch on his wrist lingers for a long time.


End file.
